


Nothing Between Us Will Ever Be Anonymous

by postjentacular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And then breakfast, Drinking, Drunk Harry, HP: EWE, Hate Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Rimming, Swearing, Tattooed Draco, pastel draco, smut smut smutty smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: In which a drunk and angry Harry Potter looks for an anonymous one night stand, but finds something quite different.





	

Harry Potter is drunk. He’s drunk, angry and dammit, he is going to get laid tonight.

The bartender indicates to the empty glasses in front of him; Harry has spent the best part of three hours being reamed out by his so-called best friends, so _yes, Mr Bartender, he will have the same again, please and thank you_. At Harry’s nod, the bartender places the two drinks in front of him and Harry passes over money, waving away his change without a word.

He downs half his whisky.

_Fuck Ronald Bilius Weasley._

_Where the hell does the weasel get off coming into his home and calling him a disaster? So, he dropped out of Auror training, it’s not the end of the world. He’s been close enough to the end of the world, he died; quitting his job is hardly the same thing. And yes, he has been drinking and no, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do now and yes, he and Ginny broke up, but not everyone marries their high school sweetheart and settles down to a white picket fenced life six months after graduation. Unlike some people he’s just having a little fun, if anyone deserves it it’s him, right? He doesn’t need to be shouted at for three hours by the ginger prick, it’s not like he’s fuckin’ perfect either._

_And then there’s his wife. Used to be you couldn’t shut her up but today of all days she decides she’ll just stand there biting her tongue while her husband goes at him, chiming in so infrequently with that calculated, calming tone: “Ginny’ll take you back, she just needs time”; “You should try and talk to her”; “You should speak to Kingsley, he could keep your job open ‘til you decide what to do”; “Maybe you could work with George for a bit?” He’s known her long enough to know exactly what she’s doing, so he broke her, just because he could. It’s easier than breaking the weasel. He knew exactly what buttons to push and he went for it; she broke spectacularly: “Maybe you should talk to your friends instead of going out every night like a drunken slut!”_

He empties his glass.

_Fuck Hermione Jean Granger hyphen Weasley._

He picks up his bottle of lager and turns to face the dancing crowd. The lager is warm, tasteless and overpriced, but people don’t come to clubs like this for their extensive and exquisitely well-stocked bars; they come for the nameless, shameless, grinding bodies and if Harry was going to be branded a drunken slut then _so be it_ , he thinks, _he is gonna damn well be a drunken slut_. He leaves his empty bottle on the bar and joins the sea of anonymous muggles on the dancefloor.

Bodies are grinding and groping to the thumping bass. Harry can hardly hear the music but he can feel the rumbling deep in his belly; he can hardly see the faces but he can feel their bodies pressed up against his - a few moments of fumbled fondling before moving onto the next one. This one’s more persistent though, the hips grind harder into Harry’s arse and a pair of arms loop around his waist: one eerily pale, the other an explosion of ink, a sleeve of orange and yellow flowers. The arms pull Harry closer, their owner’s breath tickling his ear, a twist of the arms reveals something nestled in the ink, something Harry never expected to see again - especially not here on an otherwise dreary Thursday night in a muggle gay club in an unfashionable part of London, not anywhere.

The snake, the skull, The Dark Mark.

Harry freezes. The breath in his ear finds its voice and he can hear the smirk, “Like a spot of the nasty?”

He knows that voice, how could he not? He pulls away from the arms, the hips, and turns to face Malfoy. He’s older, but the past year hasn’t been as unkind as it could’ve - or should’ve - been; he’s grown into his cheekbones and lost his sunken black eyes. His hair, as white as ever, is streaked with pastel blue. His usual smirk - the one Harry heard whisper in his ear - has gone, fallen at the sight of The Boy Who Lived. Malfoy says nothing as he turns on his heel and stalks into the crowd.

It takes Harry’s fuzzy brain longer to catch-up than it does his legs and he is already on the street outside the club before he realises what he is doing. The cold night air and the relative quiet of the street remind him how drunk he is and he has to look twice, thrice, at the blond head turning the corner at the end of the road before he realises that’s who he’s looking for. Harry jogs after him, turning into the alley just as Malfoy begins his disapparation spin “Malfoy!” Malfoy stops; apparating after a drink is dangerous enough, never mind while drunk **and** distracted.

“What do you want, Potter?”

Harry takes in the boy - _no, the man_ \- before him; _he’s fucking beautiful_ , thinks Harry’s cock, despite - _or perhaps because of_ \- that anger simmering under the surface directed right at him. “You,” he says firmly, confidently.

“You’re drunk,” Malfoy spits, “go home.”

“Come with me?” Harry asks, with a raised eyebrow he hopes looks enticing. “You wouldn’t even have to call me Harry, it would just be an anonymous shag.”

“Potter,” there was less anger in Malfoy’s voice now but it was still as firm, “nothing between us will ever be anonymous. You’re drunk, you don’t want this… me. You hate me and rightly so, no amount of alcohol will change that.” Malfoy takes a step back, “Goodnight Potter,” and he disapparates with a pop.

Harry walks back to Grimmauld Place not even noticing the cold.

* * *

It’s been almost a month, a month of sitting in this same club most nights nursing a single, pissy luke-warm lager - waiting. Tonight’s a Saturday, the club is busier, louder, hotter than usual, but Harry sits in his now-customary seat by the corner of the bar watching the dancefloor with his usual bottle.

He’s had a few false alarms over the past few weeks, but each time the blond wasn’t blond enough or the stature not regal enough, but not tonight. Tonight it’s definitely him, the pastel blue is now green, but everything else is exactly how Harry remembers it. He puts down his half-full bottle on the bar and for the first time in almost a month he makes his way through the crowds on the dancefloor.

By the time he’s wound his way across the dancefloor, Harry can feel his magic bubbling under his skin. He steps up behind his prey and pulls the body flush against his hips, “Green’s more you, but I think I prefer the blue.” Harry holds Malfoy in place as his surge of magic allows him to wandlessly conjure a bubble of silence around them, he feels Malfoy shiver as the magic envelops them. “You tell me you don’t want this and mean it,” Harry says, his lips unnecessarily close to Malfoy’s ear in their cocoon, “then I’ll stop.” He grinds his hips into Malfoy’s arse for emphasis.

“You don’t want this, Potter.” Malfoy replies, without pulling away.

“That’s not what I asked, let me decide what I want,” Harry continues, moving his hands from Malfoy’s hips and deliberately, slowly, sliding them up the inside of his forearms, “what do you want?”

“I’m not calling you Harry.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. This is just two anonymous hot guys having anonymous hot sex.”

“Nothing between us will ever be anonymous.”

“Hot sex, hate sex, it doesn’t matter what we call it,” Harry’s hands drift down to Malfoy’s now-bulging crotch, “but we clearly both want it,” he pushes his own erection into Malfoy’s arse accentuating his point. Malfoy grabs Harry’s wrist and leads him off the dancefloor, they don’t manage to leave the club and Malfoy apparates them straight from the gents to his bedroom.

Malfoy is naked on the bed hungrily licking his finger before Harry is half-undressed; by the time Harry has wrestled his trousers and boxers off Malfoy is propped up against the headboard, legs spread with one long white finger slowly breaching his arsehole.

“Fuck! Malfoy,” Harry mutters under his breath as he climbs onto the bed and settles between Malfoy’s legs. _He’s fuckin’ exquisite. ___

“Don’t just stare,” Malfoy snaps, bringing Harry back to reality. Harry locks eyes with him and dips down to run his tongue in slow circles around the head of Malfoy’s throbbing cock, never breaking eye contact. He swipes his tongue over one last bead of pre-cum, before running his tongue down the underside from tip to balls. Harry pulls Malfoy flat on his back and Malfoy throws his legs over Harry’s shoulders giving Harry a clear view of his pumping finger. Harry grabs Malfoy’s wrist and pulls the finger free before vigorously licking around Malfoy’s rim; he pushes past the ring of muscle with his tongue and hears a gasp of delight from above. Harry slides a hand up Malfoy’s chest eventually reaching his mouth; Malfoy enthusiastically sucks a finger in fellating it like there was no tomorrow.

Malfoy writhes under Harry’s ministrations as Harry takes his finger from Malfoy’s wet mouth and replaces his tongue with it. Harry’s fingers are larger than Malfoy’s and as he reaches the first knuckle Malfoy clamps down hard. Harry pulls back giving Malfoy a chance to relax before pushing in again slower. Malfoy’s incredibly tight, but Harry can feel the sphincter pushing out to let him in.

Harry gives Malfoy’s cock a few firm strokes with his free hand and flicks the tip with his tongue while slowly working his finger in and out of Malfoy’s hole. He knows he won’t get a second finger in without something else.

“Magic or muggle?” Harry asks, pulling his finger from inside Malfoy.

“It’s fine,” Malfoy pants, “more, now” he demands while bucking his hips, searching for the lost contact.

“Shit, no. I'm not going to rip you open, Malfoy.” Malfoy tries to wriggle back onto Harry’s fingers, “Magic or muggle?” Harry repeats, firmer, moving his hands out of reach of Malfoy’s thrusts.

“Magic,” Malfoy gasps, “magic, now.”

Harry grasps around on the bed until he feels a wand, thankful he doesn’t have to disentangle himself to find lube and a condom from his wallet in wherever he left his trousers. It isn’t his wand, but there’s a tingle of familiarity in the hawthorn as he non-verbally casts prophylaxis charms over the two of them. He casts the augmented aguamenti that all lonely, horny fourteen year old boys learn through word-of-mouth and shoves two slick fingers into Malfoy’s glistening pink hole.

They slide in much easier and Malfoy’s breathing deepens in time with Harry’s probing. He scissors his fingers and adds a third, “Hurry up and fuck me, Po-” Malfoy’s protestations are cut off by fingers brushing his prostate. With a smirk, Harry pulls his fingers out and leans back while he gives himself a final couple of tugs oiling up his own cock.

Malfoy begins to roll over, but is pulled back by a firm hand on his hip, “I want to see your face when I make you come.” Malfoy smirks and spreads his legs even wider, hooking his arms under his knees. Harry enters him in one slow, smooth thrust, he stills giving Malfoy a moment before beginning to thrust with a gentle rhythm.

“Come on, Potter! I’m not someone’s grandma, fuck me like you mean it!” Malfoy releases his legs and wraps them around Harry’s arse encouraging acceleration. Harry drops to his elbows and shoves both hands beneath Malfoy to grip his shoulders, he pounds into him with enough force that should have split Malfoy in two, but the moan which falls from Malfoy’s lips tells him he is doing it just right. Malfoy is jerking and moaning with each pulverising thrust and Harry knows neither of them are going to last much longer.

Malfoy reaches down, grabs his cock and begins tugging in time with Harry’s pounding. “No,” Harry growls, “I’m gonna make you come without touching.” Malfoy’s eyebrow raises questioningly, Harry grins devilishly in response, sits up, canting Malfoy’s hips and answers the eyebrow by driving right into his prostate.

Harry does it again and again, hitting the same delicious spot with increased speed; the incoherent sounds pouring from Malfoy tell Harry he’s close, “Come for me Malfoy,” Harry demands and Malfoy does. Ropes of hot cum pump onto Malfoy’s pale white chest; the sight of it tightens Harry’s bollocks and pushes him to his own orgasm. Boneless, he collapses on top of Malfoy, the sticky mess cooling between them as they catch their breath.

_Shouldn’t hate sex be angrier?_

* * *

Harry awakes in an empty bed in an unfamiliar room, he takes a second to remember where he is; when he does, the emerald green silk sheets and scent of sex in the air confirm his memory. He climbs out of bed, pulls on his boxers and t-shirt before following the smell of coffee to the kitchen.

Malfoy’s sat at the table reading The Daily Prophet, a cafetiere of coffee and a stack of buttered toast in front of him. Harry finds himself a mug and helps himself to coffee and toast; “So,” Harry begins, “do you usually make breakfast for your anonymous shags?”

“I didn’t know it was possible for you - for anyone - to get so much wrong in just one sentence,” Malfoy pronounces without looking up from his newspaper. Harry makes an undignified splutter but doesn’t have time to say anything coherent before Malfoy continues, “One: you are not anonymous, Potter; two: this is not a usual occurrence; and three: I am not making you breakfast,” he pulls the plate of toast closer to himself, “if you want breakfast you can make your own.”

Harry stretches up from his chair to reach across the table and snag a second piece of toast, “Okay, not an anonymous shag,” he corrects, “hate sex.”

Malfoy casually slaps the stolen toast from Harry’s hand, without losing his place in the article, “I never called it ‘hate sex’. Those were your words.”

“So,” Harry sits back down and takes a sip of his coffee, “what would you call it?”

Malfoy puts The Prophet down, at last, and glares directly into Harry’s eyes, “Fucking amazing.” Harry’s cheeks blaze Gryffindor red as Malfoy gets up and walks purposefully around the table, “Shag of my life,” he continues, “and, I hope, the first of many.”

“Sounds good to me,” Harry says as he pulls Draco into his lap for their first kiss.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Standard fanfic disclaimer:** If you recognise it, it belongs to J.K. Rowling; this is just fanfic for nothing other than entertainment purposes.


End file.
